Work Text:
You never used to be a morning person. That was always Paul’s thing.
However, that all changed after the two of you moved to Scotland.
Suddenly it was something you both had to partake in, whether or not you actually enjoyed doing it.
After all, there was just far too much work that had to be done.
High Park was intended to be a sanctuary for you two, an escape from the harsh, bitter world of crumbling bands and shady record deals.
You spent your days indulging in a variety of activities together. Fishing, horseback riding, hiking, birdwatching, even sneaking off to the local pub for a pint on occasion.
You both even took up new hobbies you never would’ve imagined yourselves doing months before. At least, not with how little time there was between Beatles stuff.
Paul learned how to be quite handy, repairing the house, chopping firewood, and even building his own furniture, while you decided to take up painting and baking.
That didn’t mean it was all fun and games, however.
After all, sheep still needed to be sheared, hay still needed to be baled, and crops still needed to be watered.
And of course, songs still needed to be written. Those could wait, though. The physical tasks had to come first.
You had started off the day by cooking up breakfast for your Paulie, who groggily made his way to the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He kissed your neck, gave your butt a squeeze, and guzzled down some coffee to help wake him up.
“What’s on the agenda today, love?” You asked.
Paul smiled and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Well dear, let’s see…” He started, scratching at his thick, handsome beard. “...We need more firewood, the cows need to be milked, and I’ve got to see about fixing that fence out back. Martha chased a fox out of the yard the other day and ended up breaking a rail in the process.”
You chuckled and turned to his loyal pup, napping in the corner of the kitchen. Looks like someone else around here wasn’t a morning person, either.
“Martha! You better be careful next time, old girl!” You scolded her playfully. She just lifted her head curiously, stuck out her tongue, and happily wagged her fluffy, little tail.
“I’m assuming I should get out my overalls for the sheep shearing then, right?”
Paul sipped his coffee and dismissed the idea, waving his hand.
“Don’t even worry about it, love. That’s men's work.”
“Ah, I see…Mr. Macca the manly-man…”
He grinned at you and flexed a bicep, only to turn around and reveal he was pushing the muscle up with his other hand.
“Awww, you big cheater!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about…” He hummed, batting his lashes while taking another sip of coffee. “However, you could help me out by feeding the animals.”
“That’s all? Are you sure, darling?”
“Positive! I know how much you love them. Just leave all the rough manual labor to your beefcake Paulie.”
“‘Beefcake’ is quite a generous nickname for someone with wet noodle arms…”
“Oh very funny, smart-arse…” He laughed. “You know what else is funny?”
“What?”
He leaned in toward your neck and loudly belched into your ear.
“Ugh, you’re disgusting!"
Paul just gave you a dopey grin, laughing like a schoolboy the entire time.
Just then, bread popped out of the toaster. You picked up a slice and whizzed it at his head like a Frisbee.
“Toast’s done!”
Paul squealed and ducked, the toast flying across the room and somehow landing squarely on his plate. He looked up in amazement.
“Nice aim, love.” He chuckled.
And so after breakfast, Paul got right to work chopping firewood, while you tended to the animals. You giddily observed the chickens scratching after your corn feed, the adorable cows slobbering over their cud, the horses noisily munching their hay and sugar cubes, and the gorgeous, gentle sheep nibbling on grass and occasionally knocking each other back with their horns.
You loved the farm. It was peaceful, quiet, and a breath of fresh air compared to your frantic, bustling city life.
While Paul went about his chores for the day, you went for a stroll with Martha and came back home to close out the afternoon by baking up a lovely loaf of honey wheat bread. You set it on the stovetop to cool once it was done and laid on the bed in your camisole, reading a novel.
Sometime later you heard the front door open, followed by the clomping of Paul’s wellies on the linoleum. He kicked them off against the mud mat and softly marched to the bedroom in his socks. He saw you on the bed and nodded, panting slightly.
“There you are, love! How goes it?”
“Done, done, and done…phew!” He grinned. “Today’s work is over! Thank lord.”
You couldn’t help but notice how grungy he looked. His old, white button-down shirt was soaked with perspiration, his hair greasy with it as well. Down below, dried mud and dirt clods kissed the fabric of his jeans, and his holey socks had noticeable discoloration from sweating in his boots.
Somehow, you found it enticing. You found it steamy, even. You could only dream of seeing this hardened, rugged version of Paul while the two of you were back in London.
He reached down and grasped the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up and over himself. He tossed it onto his side of the bed and flopped down next to you on his belly, his arms folded up under his pillow. He sighed in relief, all the while you chuckled. You put down your book and admired his body, rubbing his back.
The hot, summer sun had obviously taken its toll on him, as his skin was warm and slick. His breath smelled of coffee and his dusty hair smelled of hay.
You caught another scent in there too, a familiar one, but you couldn’t quite discern what it was.
You leaned closer to him and took another whiff.
It was biting at first, but only slightly. It was warm, tangy, and musky, and softened up rather quickly.
Then, it hit you.
Oh. Those were his armpits.
It wasn’t really an unpleasant scent by any means. In fact, it was surprisingly more subtle than you would’ve expected, given how hot it was outside and how long Paul had been out chopping wood. Just noticeable and human.
You were always used to Paul looking and smelling his best, hair neatly brushed and clothes spritzed with cologne. But here at High Park, it all seemed to go out the window.
And not in a particularly bad way, necessarily.
Your eyes drifted to his pits, his dark, wispy armpit hair casually in view.
Gorgeous you thought. Absolutely gorgeous.
You leaned in once more, putting the tip of your nose deep in the crook of his underarm, and got another whiff.
*sniff*
*sniff sniff sniff*
Paul looked up from his pillow in curiosity. He squinted at you.
“D-Darling?”
“Shhh…” You hushed. “Don’t move.”
“What on Earth are you doing?” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Smelling you…” You answered bluntly, as if this was something the two of you did routinely.
He just shook his head, giggling.
“You’re so odd…Well? Do I smell nice?”
You pulled away and looked at him dreamily.
“Mmhmm…”
He reached beside him and grabbed his shirt, handing it to you.
“Smell this." He smiled. "There’s probably more of it on here…”
You gladly took the garment from him and held it to your nose, huffing his scent. The musky underarm odor was mostly contained in the pits unsurprisingly, but then you caught another familiar smell that absolutely shook you to your core.
The sweat his shirt was drenched in?
It wasn’t tangy or musky at all, not like his armpits.
It was comforting. It was gentle. It was nostalgic.
Just one little whiff was enough to transport you back to your summer days growing up, sitting on your Papa’s lap while he tiredly, yet gleefully read you picture books after a long day of mowing the lawn and pulling weeds.
It was then and there that you realized that those combined scents all painted Paul in their own special way.
A relentlessly hard worker.
A faithful, trusted friend.
A romantic, passionate lover.
And a gentle, lovingly patient father figure.
These indeed all fit him to a T.
You sighed in pleasure and put down the shirt, your eyes then running down his sides to his hips and plump bottom. His muddy jeans hugged at the skin there, accentuating every slight curve and crevice. He giggled as you ran your hand along the fabric, gently patting his bum.
Yes, he was sweaty.
He was grimy.
He was smelly.
But he was yours. All yours.
And you would never give him up for anything, ever.
“...Baby?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Hold me. Please.”
Paul gave you a soft smile.
“Of course…”
He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. He kissed your forehead as you buried your face into his sweaty, bare chest, the two of you drifting off to sleep. You clung onto him all night long, never once softening the grip you had on his waist.